


the light between us

by carnival_papers



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Body Worship, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Unresolved Sexual Tension, heavy-handed metaphors about sight and light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 16:58:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4487484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnival_papers/pseuds/carnival_papers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He looks in the mirror again, and this time, Javert is looking back. Though the glass is cloudy, he can see Javert’s eyes, clear, and Javert does not look away. Valjean pulls the razor across his jaw again. He watches Javert watching. Wonders who will blink first.</i>
</p><p>After being let go from the police, Javert moves in with Valjean. Tension ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the light between us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tvglow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tvglow/gifts).



> [tvglow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tvglow), thank you so much for giving me such fun prompts to work with! I hope you don't mind that I tried to roll, uh, three of them together. They were so good, I couldn't pick just one! 
> 
> Many thanks to [icicaille](http://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille) for betaing and for holding my hand through this and not laughing too much when I asked stupid questions. And thanks to [vaincs](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vaincs) for reminding me that frottage is a thing.
> 
> Written for the following prompts:  
> "- post-Seine: accidental voyeurism, constantly catching each other washing/in various states of undress, agonizing over it because there's so much UST and so little determination;  
> \- could be a part of the previous one: after months of mutual longing and occasionally sharing a bed, haphazard touching under the blankets when it gets too much to bear;  
> \- good old body worship, with Valjean on receiving end; + Javert admiring Valjean's super hot bod in general."
> 
> This fic does come with a **warning** for a very brief traumatic flashback to Valjean's time in Toulon. Nothing terribly graphic, but do be aware!

Javert is let go from the police in April, and shortly thereafter, he appears at Valjean’s door, eyes downcast, asking for a place to stay. He mentions being forced into retirement, something about more notes not going over well. The rent at his apartment is too high, he says, he cannot pay it any longer. He says he does not want to take advantage of Valjean’s kindness, that he will be able to pay eventually, as soon as he can find another source of income, but would Valjean spare a room, or a spot on the sofa? Valjean, of course, is happy to oblige. It does not take long to move Javert’s few possessions into Cosette’s old bedroom.

It takes longer to adjust to sharing the house with Javert. It is different from living with Cosette, who was quiet and woke at sunrise and went to bed at sundown. She knocked on doors, she announced her presence before entering, and her presence was warm, her voice singsong. Javert, on the other hand, has a tendency to barge in unannounced, and has taken up residency in the parlor at all hours of the day. Valjean is not entirely sure how he spends his time there, given that he does not read or pray or write. He is always simply sitting, staring at a wall or the fire, looking lost.

Valjean has not yet grown used to Javert living with him. He had thought it would not be a simple transition, from Cosette to Javert, but Javert, as always, has proved himself beyond any expectation. He is not loud, per se, but he feels the need to argue at dinner, over petty things like the dishes or the newspaper. And he never seems to sleep—there hardly comes a time when he is not in the parlor sitting or pacing. Valjean mentally resolves to find him some sort of occupation, even if it is only pulling the weeds in the garden.

Worse yet, Javert seems incapable of communicating with Valjean. In the few weeks after Valjean pulled him from the river, there was little talking, and Valjean did not expect there to be. But the two of them living together—Valjean had hoped for pleasant conversation, at the very least. Instead, there is only tension, and Valjean cannot say why.

Then—he catches Javert looking.

The first time is in May and Valjean is sure it is an accident. They have been living together for less than a month, then, and there are boundaries but they are blurry. Valjean has spent the afternoon in the garden sweating, dirt sticking under his nails and on his fingertips and forearms. It is instinctual to wash himself in the basin in the kitchen, and so he folds his shirt over a chair, wets a cloth, and sets to cleaning. The water is cool on his face, running in rivulets over his neck and back, dampening the waistband of his trousers. He works slowly, scrubs at his palms and fingernails, and takes a kind of comfort in the repetitive motion of making oneself clean.

And then there is a cough from somewhere behind him, and he thinks of his scars and Cosette seeing them, questioning them, and throws down the cloth, reaches for his shirt with still-wet hands. It is then he sees Javert, wide-eyed, looking and trying not to look.

“I’m—I was just—I’m sorry,” Javert stammers, but he still looks, even as Valjean slips his arms into the sleeves. Valjean burns, knowing Javert has seen his back, knowing this is far from the first time Javert has seen it.

“It’s quite alright,” Valjean says, buttoning the shirt. It sticks to his back where his skin is still damp, and he briefly wonders if Javert can see the scars through the thin material. “I should have told you I would be here.”

Javert shakes his head, shrugs, finally tears his eyes away from Valjean’s body. “It is your house,” he says. “You do not have to tell me anything.”

Valjean does not have the energy to argue with him. “There is still plenty of water, if you should need to wash,” Valjean says, and Javert nods, and there is a moment, a held gaze, that is tense and taut and unexplainable. 

It happens again, a few weeks later, similarly, when Javert bursts into Valjean’s room without knocking. He is pulling on his trousers, and Javert is shouting something about a change in police regulations, and the door swings open and Javert stops cold. Valjean scrambles to button the trousers, but Javert has already seen him.

When he turns, Javert’s chest is heaving, and he has stopped speaking in the middle of his sentence, and his hands are fists against his thighs. Valjean realizes then that he still has no shirt on.

Javert is staring. He is making no effort not to. Valjean notices how Javert’s eyes linger on the brand on his bicep and then drift to his wrists, always to his wrists. He has learned not to run when Javert looks at him this way; Javert poses no threat now—their lives are too entwined, too dependent on one another.

“Forgive me,” Javert says. He bites his bottom lip, he breathes too heavily. Valjean does not know how to respond, and he is more than a little thankful when Javert makes a quick exit.

Valjean latches the door, double-checks it, and sits on his bed, face in his hands.

In July, after a late dinner with Cosette, he wanders in on Javert, half-dressed, washing in the kitchen. In the dim lamplight it is hard to see what Javert is doing, but there is the telltale slosh of water and Javert’s stifled sigh at the cool cloth on his neck.

Valjean cannot bring himself to look away. It is strange to watch Javert do something so human as wash himself. Valjean feels some shame at his curiosity, but Javert’s eyes are closed, so he takes a moment to look. Javert’s bones move under his skin, slick with water, and there are freckles on Javert’s forearms, a mole on his stomach.

Javert squeezes the cloth and water runs in small streams over his collarbones, down the center of his chest, catching the light. And Valjean does not know why, but he looks, and looks, and looks. Follows a drip from Javert’s neck to his sternum to his hip, where it disappears beneath his trousers.

Then, his eyes are open, and he is looking back at Valjean, and panic and embarrassment burn in Valjean’s chest. Javert holds the cloth against his shoulder, his lips wet and slightly parted. Valjean expects him to be agitated—furious, even—but instead, Javert’s expression is blank. His mouth closes.

“Well, good evening, then!” Valjean says, before stumbling into his bedroom. The image of water trickling down the curve of Javert’s ribs—still too prominent—does not leave him for weeks.

By August, Valjean finally gathers the courage to enter the kitchen again, and is thoroughly relieved when Javert is not there. He takes the opportunity to shave, preparing soap and strop and brush, almost ritualistically, on the little table under the mirror. There is too much stubble on his jaw; it will take several passes of the blade to leave his skin smooth once again.

He does not mind the time it takes, nor the repetitive motions of applying the warm lather of the soap or drawing the razor across his cheek or sharpening it against the strop. It is soothing to lose himself in this and focus on nothing but the sound of the cut, the careful application of pressure, turning the blade at his chin.

He has just finished the left side of his face when he catches sight of Javert in the mirror. Valjean becomes dimly aware of the scent of coffee, and he momentarily watches Javert flip through pages of yesterday’s newspaper before returning to shaving. He presses the razor against the right side of his face—easy, slow—and tilts his head just so. The blade cuts a sharp line through the thick foam, straight and sure.

As he cleans the razor of foam and hair, he looks in the mirror again, and this time, Javert is looking back. Though the glass is cloudy, he can see Javert’s eyes, clear, and Javert does not look away.

Valjean pulls the razor across his jaw again. He watches Javert watching. Wonders who will blink first.

* * *

The unease does not dissipate, only begins to bury itself. They learn to be more careful, to keep doors shut and to knock. Javert has no schedule, but he begins to run on Valjean’s, and they share lunch more often now, though Javert still sleeps through breakfast most days.

He does not know what he expected when Javert moved in, but it was not this. They had almost become friends, before, but in the shared space, they have found distance. In the fall, Javert takes to pacing the parlor, muttering to no one in particular. Valjean exiles himself to the garden to read and to pray. Occasionally, he allows himself to hope that Javert will speak to him like anyone else would. He supposes, given their history, that is not likely to happen.

Valjean sleeps less and less. He blames it on Javert’s presence, justifies it to himself as though he is still adjusting to Javert being there. That is a lie, of course—Javert has been there for months, and he hardly slept when Cosette was there, either. But his sleep has grown more and more restless.

He dreams of Toulon, sometimes. Wakes smelling the sea and knowing that his back is bleeding. When he stumbles out of bed, he drags his foot—it is chained, or it _was_ chained, the distinction does not matter—and finds his Bible and prays.

Some days he knows it is coming. He has come to expect the dread in the pit of his stomach, a phantom ache in his muscles. He cannot very well talk to Javert about it. They have not discussed Toulon, and Valjean does not particularly want to. There is enough apprehension between the two of them as it is.

On a night in September, the dread consumes Valjean. He cannot say what brings it on—a scent in the air, the temperature changing, a cut on his hand that bleeds for hours. All he knows is that he is overwhelmed with despair, with fear of what the night will bring. It rattles him deeply; he cannot focus on his reading or the rosary. Instead he mindlessly runs the beads between his fingers, hopes that the repetitive motion will calm him. It doesn’t.

He skips dinner—he does not bother to tell Javert—and instead withdraws into his bedroom. Evenings like this make him feel hopeless. So many years have passed since Toulon, but he has made no progress. He wonders if he ever will.

It is not worth dwelling on. Valjean buries his face in his pillow and prays, hopes, for a night that passes quickly.

The memories come.

First, in flashes like powderkegs exploding: bread, seven small hungry faces, the chain, the galleys.

Then: a hot iron branding his shoulder, biting the insides of his cheeks to keep from crying out, learning to hide the pain. How the skin blisters, then turns red and slick and raw, then scars. It hurts for days before something deadens it, or before he learns to ignore it. The scars there on his arm are thick, raised—a barely-legible _TFP_.

That first long walk to the post, dragging his leg, wincing and awaiting the lash. The sounds cannot be ignored. Men in agony at the hands of other men. Eventually the blood and adrenaline and fear pumping in his brain drown out everything else, everything except the pain that spreads like roots and branches across his back. He is a tree-pruner at Faverolles, he is a thief, he is a prisoner, he is a number, he is bleeding, he is bleeding, he is bleeding.

A weight on his shoulder, fingers brushing against the scars. It is gentle, and it is kind, and it is not anything he remembers. It wakes him.

The room is dark and too cold for September. The hand on his shoulder quivers.

“Valjean.” The hand squeezes. “Valjean.”

It is Javert, and that fact alone makes Valjean nervous. But Javert’s fingers, though they are rough, are stroking softly over his arm. He cannot focus on anything but that—the pinpoint of easy pressure that soothes him, and Javert’s breathing.

He cannot see anything in the dark.

“Forgive me for coming in, I—I heard you, and—the door was not latched,” Javert stammers, hardly finishing his sentence. He lifts his hand, a bit abruptly, and Valjean wishes he would put it back. “I worried you were—I worried.”

Valjean gathers that Javert is somewhere in front of him, standing next to the bed. He is glad his eyes have not yet adjusted to the dark; surely Javert would be an imposing figure upon waking up from such a terrible memory.

But his hand, his hand—Valjean wants to place it on his shoulder again, feel that pleasant weight and fearless touch.

“Are you alright?” Javert says.

He realizes then that he has not spoken. “A bad dream,” he says, but the words stick in his throat and come out choked, sounding vulnerable.

“I will leave you,” Javert says. Valjean hears him shuffle around, knock his knee against the bedside table, maybe, curse under his breath.

It is not likely that Valjean will sleep much tonight. He should light the lamp, find his Bible. But he cannot think of anything but the slow movement of Javert’s fingers over his arm, the feeling of his skin bristling underneath the thin fabric of his nightshirt.

“No,” Valjean breathes. “Please, stay.”

Javert is silent for a moment, and then Valjean hears him moving again, coming around to the other side of the bed. The bedframe creaks when Javert sits down next to him, legs folded, thigh against Valjean’s back. The casual touch should set Valjean uneasy, but Javert is warm, and Valjean is aware that no one has ever done this before—sat next to him in bed, bodies touching, in the middle of the night.

It seems such a simple thing. And now, feeling it for the first time, Valjean feels—feels—

He does not know what he feels. Guilty for wanting it so much. Still on-edge from the memories.

And then there is Javert’s hand again, so easy and so unexpected that it makes Valjean draw in a sharp breath. Javert’s fingers span the width of Valjean’s shoulder and press, gently, kindly, and Valjean tries to relax, uncurl his body. He stretches his legs out, the muscles in his thighs and calves almost cramping from the sudden movement. Javert draws his thumb over Valjean’s shoulder, pushes against the bone there, and Valjean sighs.

It feels good to be touched. He had never thought such a thing was possible.

There is still a lingering pain in his leg, at his ankle, a chain wrapped tight around him. But Javert’s touch is smooth and slow, and the sweep of his thumb gradually replaces the crack of the lash.

Eventually, he falls asleep. The rest of the night is dreamless.

He is woken up, later than usual, by golden light pouring in through the window, warm on his face. Javert’s hand is not on his shoulder anymore, but there is a knee digging into the back of his thigh and a hard ache between his legs.

Valjean turns over carefully. Javert is snoring, his hair stuck up and shining in the light. His hand is in a fist between them, fingers dug into the sheets, and his bare feet are cold against Valjean’s.

This certainly is not a sight Valjean ever expected to witness.

He almost laughs at the strangeness of the situation. How has he ended up in bed with Javert? And without fear? Indeed, this is the best sleep he has had in months—years, even—and with Javert in his bed.

Valjean eases himself out of bed, quiet and slow, so as not to wake Javert, and finally becomes fully conscious of the heat pooled at the bottom of his stomach, the stiffness at his thighs. It is more than embarrassing; it is shameful. While Javert sleeps, he dresses, prays, hopes the problem will take care of itself.

They share the bed again two nights later, after Valjean spends long hours awake, remembering Toulon, and again a few nights after that. Each time, Javert’s hands are kind, stroking Valjean’s forearm or, once, brushing through the curls of Valjean’s hair. And each time, Valjean wakes sensitive, a knot somewhere below his navel, and prays for some kind of release.

Eventually, it becomes routine. Valjean invites Javert to bed and Javert follows, and the touch is gentle, and Valjean sighs until he falls asleep. They do not speak of it—they hardly speak at all—but at least Valjean is sleeping easier now, and Javert seems less belligerent than usual.

They are still strained, though. At lunch one day, Javert passes Valjean the butter and their fingertips brush beneath the plate. Valjean watches Javert jerk his hand back as though he has been stung. The fork between his fingers trembles.

In October, Javert stands in the front hall, struggling to put on his coat. It seems a simple, obvious thing to help him with it, and so Valjean eases the coat over Javert’s shoulders and fixes the collar. He stands behind Javert, must reach up to adjust the collar. The coat is tight across Javert’s back—it flatters him, makes him look broader and stronger than usual. Valjean has a fleeting wonder about what Javert’s shoulders look like under the layers of coat and shirt, and then Javert turns around and gapes at him, as though he has seen Valjean’s innermost thoughts. Valjean retreats, and Javert breathes, and Valjean does not know what to make of any of it.

That night, Javert follows Valjean to bed, as usual. Valjean does not have to invite him anymore; he knows to walk a few steps behind Valjean, wait for him to blow out the lamp, and then climb into bed. He lies down next to Valjean, and Valjean knows the touch is coming—something simple, a finger stroking the nape of his neck, Javert’s knuckles brushing the back of his arm. He has come to anticipate the touch, hunger for it. He knows it is greedy to do such a thing, to think the touch is anything other than a gift, but he cannot stop himself from wanting.

Javert touches his back and the sensation is distant, clouded, through walls of shirt and scars. Still, Valjean follows the path of Javert’s fingertips—down his spine, across his shoulder blades, the small of his back. Beneath the sheets, he feels Javert’s toes against his heel.

He sighs, closes his eyes, lets Javert’s touch wander. It is soothing and soft, and the rustle of fabric and Javert’s breathing is a new kind of comfort.

Javert’s hand dips to Valjean’s waist, just at his hipbone. The skin there is smooth and unscarred, and in the light it might be pale. Javert has never touched him here before— _no one_ has ever touched him here before—and Valjean’s body feels suddenly shot through with warmth and anxiety. He must gasp, because Javert lifts his fingers for a moment before proceeding to touch again. Though there is the thin fabric of the nightshirt separating the two of them, the touch is almost too much, too intimate.

The heat in Valjean’s stomach returns, sharp and sudden as a pain, and twists its way up to Valjean’s chest and down between his thighs. Javert’s fingers drift down from Valjean’s hip to the hem of the shirt. For a moment, Javert pauses, his fingers still. Then it is skin on skin, fingertip to thigh, slow and steady and completely overwhelming. Javert’s hand is flat on Valjean’s thigh, thumb beneath the shirt, unmoving.

Valjean feels himself twitch. This is not an unpleasant sensation, but everything is magnified. No one else’s hands have found these holds; he has only ever touched himself here while dressing or washing. There are no scars here to dull the feeling, and Valjean does not know how to respond to it. He vaguely considers placing a hand over Javert’s, feeling the way his knuckles move, but then Javert might stop, and he does not want that.

Javert’s touch is more tentative now, less sure. Each slow movement is a precious kind of agony, coupled with the knot in his stomach. He is at once set on edge and indescribably calm beneath Javert’s hand, even as it slips further beneath the nightshirt. Javert’s fingertips are at his hip once more, no barrier this time, and the feeling is so soft and new and strange that Valjean can only shiver.

And suddenly Valjean is conscious of his body, every scar and imperfection, when Javert’s fingers slip from Valjean’s hipbone to his waist, brushing across the hair between his legs and momentarily settling there, just to the side of his navel. Javert touches there and Valjean can feel the sweat on Javert’s palm. Perhaps he should feel more anxious than he does.

Valjean gasps into his pillow when Javert touches his prick. It is only a second, only a fleeting touch, but it sends shocks through him. He covers his mouth with his hand, curls his toes into the sheets.

Javert touches him again, more deliberately this time. It is no less shocking. He tries to focus on anything, anything but Javert’s palm around him and how the muscles in his legs grow tighter and tenser. Javert moves his wrist in slow pulls, measured and easy. Valjean shuts his eyes tight, thankful for the dark, thankful that Javert cannot see his face or the way he is coming apart.

He rolls onto his back, digging his fingertips into the mattress for some kind of relief. Javert still touches him, and his shoulders bend back almost involuntarily. He has hardly done this to himself before, and it has never been anything other than a chore, as much a necessity as washing or eating. This is—Valjean struggles for breath as Javert gently, expertly turns his hand around him—something different.

Then Javert is suddenly pressed against his hip, his knee against Valjean’s thigh, and his face is close to Valjean’s shoulder. Valjean can feel his breath, warm and steady, on the side of his neck. Valjean cannot speak, cannot ask Javert to stop—he moves his palm a little faster now, long strokes drawing noises out of Valjean that he did not know he was capable of making. If not for the sheer pleasure of it, he might think he was back in Toulon, praying for an end to the torment.

But he does not want this to end, not exactly. Javert grunts and moves his hips just so, and Valjean realizes that it is Javert’s prick against him. In a moment of clarity between shallow breaths, he wonders if this is why Javert has been acting so strangely, why they have been circling each other like vultures, neither making any move. And then he is crying out again, not in pain but something else entirely, and Javert is thrusting against him once more, breath growing shaky.

Valjean cannot ask what any of this means. He does not know if he would, if he could. He feels Javert’s thumb glance over the head of his prick, so fast and light that it only registers when the sensation dances up his spine and makes his back arch. He wants to beg Javert to finish him, but this suffering is delicious. He is hot, too hot; he resists the urge to throw the sheets off the bed. There is sweat on his forehead, Javert’s palm, Javert close to him, Javert breathing hard and the bedframe creaking beneath Javert’s movement.

Javert’s strokes slow until they are in time with his thrusts, and then he works more forcefully, bringing his hand down hard and tightening his grip around Valjean. The corners of Valjean’s eyes sting, he is warm and there is blood pumping in his ears beneath the sound of Javert biting back insistent, pleased noises.

Then—something within him snaps, like a twig bent too far. He expects it to hurt, but, God— _God_ —he cannot even make a sound, only gasp for breath as his body bursts with bliss. He thrusts up into Javert’s palm, unable to stop himself, feeling his prick suddenly wet with his own spend. Javert’s grip does not loosen; he seems intent on wringing everything out of Valjean, and Valjean lets him. Valjean spills himself over Javert’s knuckles and his stomach and his nightshirt.

It is good. It is better than good.

Valjean can hardly breathe. He almost pleads with Javert to let him loose, to lift his fingers, but—despite the sudden intensification of each small touch, it is still welcome, and he twists his fingers in the sheets when Javert makes a final, painfully slow stroke.

His mind is scattered, everything blurry and clouded as the mirror in the kitchen. He is still trying to catch his breath when, a moment later, Javert thrusts hard against him, hipbone against hipbone, and gives a low, satisfied groan. Valjean is glad he does not have to move—he does not have the energy for it; he is certain his legs would shake. His own hands are still trembling, and Javert’s are, too.

Javert’s palm lands flat on Valjean’s stomach and Valjean feels the hint of Javert’s nails when Javert chokes out, “ _God_ ,”—the first word he has spoken this evening—and finishes, wet, against Valjean’s side. Then he is still, panting, not daring to move his fingers.

There is only the touch, and the sound of their breath, and the dark.

As he is drifting to sleep, Valjean wonders what he must look like, and what Javert must look like, and if they will acknowledge that this has happened between them. And, more distantly, he wonders if he should be ashamed of this. But that, he figures, is a question for the morning, for the light.

* * *

It happens again. And again.

Each time, Valjean wakes before Javert and hurries to the kitchen to wash himself of any evidence of what has occurred between them. Each time, he stuffs the sheets to the bottom of the laundry basket, beneath shirts and stockings, and hopes Toussaint does not notice. And each time, they do not speak of it, and return to circling.

If nothing else, it is a release of tension between them. After the first time, it is several weeks before Javert’s touches drift below Valjean’s waist again. Then, after that, just days.

Valjean cannot complain about it. He does not understand it, why they do this and do not speak of it, but it keeps him sleeping easier, and it feels better each time. Occasionally, he thinks he should return the favor—reach around Javert’s hip and find him, work until his wrist goes stiff. But Javert never gives him the opportunity, and, moreover, Javert seems happy to do it all himself.

He does not feel ashamed of it. Guilty, sometimes, that he should enjoy it so much, but more confused than anything. He did not think himself capable of such overwhelming pleasure, that it could be meant for him, but night after night, Javert brings him there. He wonders, too, why they cannot speak of it, but there is much they do not speak of, and so he lets it lie. It is a strange system, but it works for them, and he does not want to give it up.

A heavy snow falls the first week of December, and the house is constantly cold, even with the fire burning at all hours. Valjean finds thicker blankets for the bed, and at night, they do not quite cling to one another, but something close to that. Any pretenses of distance between them are quickly abandoned, and they sleep pressed close to each other, Valjean’s back to Javert’s chest, once the routine of hips and hands is finished.

There is no name for this thing between them. Though Valjean is sure it is sin, he has not confessed it—they have not spoken it, not dared to acknowledge it. How can he say it to anyone else?

The night the storm breaks, Valjean retires early. It is too quiet to sit in the parlor with Javert, avoiding each other’s eyes, doing nothing, and so he fills the bedside lamp with oil and settles in to read. The Goethe hardly holds his interest; he cannot stop his mind from wandering to how Javert will feel against him tonight. Valjean thinks of Javert’s legs tangled up with his, and how he had woken up this morning with Javert’s arm slung over his waist, and how he had laid there with Javert’s hand light against his stomach and wanted nothing more. How he had thought himself incapable of wanting.

A knock at the door. Valjean is thankful for the distraction from the book—not that he has been paying it much attention, anyway. “Yes?” he says, and the word is harsh on his throat. He suddenly realizes how little they have been speaking.

The door creaks open. Javert is in his nightshirt already, with one long sock rolled down beneath his knee. Valjean leans over to blow out the lamp.

“Wait,” Javert says. Valjean knows this tone, he has heard Javert use it before—after the river, when Javert had begged him just to let him die. The word pings its way through Valjean’s body, cold, and he sits up straight, closes his book. Javert’s countenance is dark in the shadow across the room, away from the light. Valjean cannot make out his expression. But it is quiet—silent—and so he hears the deep breath Javert takes, the way it catches, before he says, “I want to see you.”

“Pardon?”

Javert steps forward, closer to the foot of the bed. “I want to see you. Please.”

Valjean shifts uncomfortably. “What is there to see?” he murmurs, and sets the book down next to the lamp.

And then Javert is climbing into bed next to him—not unusual, or would not be unusual if the lamp were blown out—and sitting on his knees, legs tucked underneath him. In the flicker of lamplight, it is easier to see him now, with his mouth open and eyelids heavy. Valjean watches Javert’s throat and jaw work, tense and relax, before Javert reaches out and places a hand on his shoulder. Javert turns Valjean’s upper body, gentle but deliberate, so Valjean is facing him.

Valjean’s chest immediately tightens. This kind of touch is welcome in the dark, but being so close, looking each other in the eye—he does not know what Javert wants, or what he is supposed to do. And Javert’s hand is still on his shoulder, fingertips pressing in just enough to make their presence known, and he does not know what to do. He avoids Javert’s eyes as much as he can, but there is not much else to look at. When he hangs his head down toward the sheets between them, Javert lifts his chin with a sweaty palm and holds his head there, so meeting his eyes is unavoidable.

Javert searches his face. Valjean figures that he should be accustomed to this by now, considering how often they have been walking in on one another, catching each other looking. But he is still unused to being so scrutinized, and he wonders what Javert is thinking or what he is looking for. Javert’s face is close, and his eyes are close, and his mouth is close. Valjean bites the inside of his cheek, finds a kind of relief in the pain, focuses on that discomfort rather than the weight of Javert looking at him.

The kiss takes him by surprise. He does not realize it is a kiss at first, because the concept of Javert kissing him is so preposterous. But there is no other word for it—Javert’s mouth suddenly on his, softer than he ever imagined Javert to be, and his nails digging deep into the heels of his hands, all the breath in his lungs stolen. He has seen Marius kiss Cosette, but it has always been chaste and quick, never anything like this, which stretches and lingers and goes, goes, goes. Javert pulls back for a moment and gasps for breath, or maybe Valjean is the one gasping—he does not know and it does not matter, because then there are Javert’s lips again. Valjean does not know what it means or how to respond, but he tries, feels Javert’s fingers stroke a curl at the nape of his neck, and thinks he has done something right. Even if none of this makes any sense, it feels right, and his eyes are closed and he is not sure if they are fitting together the right way—there is Javert’s tongue ghosting along the roof of his mouth, there is Javert’s lip brushing against his teeth—but maybe it does not matter.

He does not have the self-control not to pant when Javert pulls away. Valjean feels his chest heaving as though he has been working in the garden in the heat, out of breath and sweating. Javert’s fingers are still at the nape of his neck, palm steady against him. He is not sure what has just passed between them, only that he wants it again.

Javert’s lip trembles before he speaks. “I am sorry for keeping you so in the dark,” he says, “but I have been—nursing some great desire for you for so long—too great to say aloud. I thought speaking it to you would destroy you—this—perhaps it still will.”

In the dim light, Javert’s eyes are sharp, steely, and Valjean thinks this is the first time he has looked at them so closely. There are flecks of green in the blue-grey, and he looks as if he has been awake too long—Valjean knows those drooping eyelids, the dark circles, that become friends when nerves keep a man from sleep. His gaze drifts to Javert’s mouth, his wet lips.

And then he is leaning in to kiss Javert, messy and fast and off-balance. He does not know what he is doing, what has possessed him, but he cannot keep himself from doing it. Javert makes a soft noise like a startled animal that is swallowed up in Valjean’s mouth, and Valjean draws his fingers over the coarse hair on Javert’s cheeks. Kissing has not lost its novelty; Valjean goes nearly limp beneath Javert’s lips. He thinks, distantly, that this cannot be wrong, not if it feels so good, not if he is unafraid of doing it, not if Javert is trailing kisses from Valjean’s mouth to his jaw. Valjean lets his eyes close, lets Javert kiss him again and again.

Valjean stammers between each press of Javert’s lips to his skin. “You are the only one who has—I have never shared such things—not with anyone before you—”

Javert suddenly lifts his head, his hand falling from Valjean’s neck. “That is unbelievable,” he says. “You—surely.”

“No,” Valjean says. “No one. I have never.”

He has the vague feeling that he is unraveling, that he is going to fall apart here in front of Javert. He is desperate for something—he does not know what—and he is knotted up inside, in his stomach and between his thighs, and he is confused that he can even feel such things, warmth and hunger and want.

“I want to—I should like to do more. If it is to your liking.” Javert’s words are fast, almost spit out, as though he might otherwise lose heart to say them.

“More,” Valjean says. Turns that over in his mind. “Yes. More.” He nods, is not quite sure what he is agreeing to, but nods, and Javert sighs a weighty, relieved sigh. At once, Javert is pulling him forward, kissing him again and shoving pillows behind him. Javert takes the lead and Valjean lets him do so, shifting out from under the sheets as Javert absently tugs them down. Valjean is vaguely aware of how his nightshirt is tenting, how ugly his body must be in the lamplight, and he wonders what Javert must think of him.

Suddenly Javert’s hand is splayed across Valjean’s thigh, fingertips pressing into the muscle and pushing just slightly. Javert lifts his lips from Valjean’s and pauses for a moment to look at him—Valjean cannot imagine what his face must look like now, all scandal and delight. He lets Javert spread his legs easily, thankful that the nightshirt at least partially covers his thighs.

And then Javert has moved between Valjean’s legs, on his knees before him. Valjean leans back into the pillows and tries to steady his breathing. Javert touches his left thigh, just above the knee, with a single fingertip, drawing a small circle that spirals out, slower and slower, until the heat of the touch radiates up and down his entire leg. Javert repeats the motion with two fingers, then three, excruciatingly gentle. Valjean’s toes curl, and he notices that Javert is smiling his strange, rare smile.

“Is this good?” Javert asks.

Valjean wonders if Javert has ever asked him anything before. Certainly nothing like this. “Yes,” Valjean answers, his voice not sounding like his own. “It is very good.”

Javert draws his fingers down Valjean’s knee next, the old strong kneecap and the soft skin behind it. His touch lingers there in the bend of Valjean’s leg for a moment, rubbing a horizontal line, so tender it almost tickles Valjean. Then, straight down Valjean’s shin to the top of his foot. An easy press between the bones of his foot, a fingertip over the curling toes, a circle around the knob of bone at his ankle, more sensitive than he knew.

Javert bends down and kisses Valjean’s knee. Valjean feels his breath and his mouth and the softness of it, the gentle flick of his tongue against the skin. He wonders if he will get to do this to Javert—perhaps not tonight, but eventually—and make him feel so cared for. He tries not to linger on that thought for too long, lest it overwhelm him and he think of every reason he does not deserve such kindness. For now, he thinks of the cool of the evening, and the lamplight on Javert’s hand, and the pillows behind his back, and Javert repeating all the touch on his right leg.

By the time Javert has kissed Valjean’s right kneecap, his prick is aching, and he does not know whether or not to ask Javert to take care of it as usual. Something about the heat and the throb is familiar to him, almost a pain but sweeter. Tendrils of warmth spread out like roots, from his belly down around his thighs and up to his lungs, planting firmly in his heart. He sighs, and he feels wonderfully lost, and Javert’s eyes are fixed on him.

“Is there—do you have lamp oil?” Javert asks it quietly, almost shamefully.

It shakes Valjean from his thoughts of roots and pale green things. “I have just filled it,” he says. “There is no need.”

Javert laughs. “It is not for the lamp.”

Valjean does not dare to ask what the oil is for, then. Instead he reaches for the small bottle and surrenders it to Javert without question, watching as Javert uncorks it and pours some into his palm before closing the bottle, setting it somewhere to Valjean’s side. He works the oil over his fingers and it drips onto the sheets. He nudges himself closer, a knee touching each of Valjean’s thighs, and slips a hand beneath the small of Valjean’s back. Valjean tries not to flinch.

Javert lifts Valjean’s hips gently, Valjean slipping down the pillows just so. He strains to sit up, to see what Javert is doing, but Javert fixes him with a look. “Lie down,” Javert says, “please.” His tone is reassuring enough that Valjean lies flat without protest. The long nightshirt is rucked up over his hips now, his thighs bare and spread around Javert’s knees. Then Javert sets Valjean’s legs so his knees are in the air, feet flat on the bed. Valjean closes his eyes—he must look wanton. But he trusts Javert, and Javert lifts his hips again, and he dares to look down at Javert. He cannot see Javert’s hands, only the intensity with which he stares between Valjean’s legs, and then—

It is like nothing he has ever felt before. He immediately squirms, his back arching impulsively, and Javert steadies him. Javert’s finger is warm with the oil and moving slowly, fluidly within him, and Valjean is coming undone. He makes a stifled, keening noise, so loud and sudden that he claps a hand over his mouth. Javert shifts, balances Valjean on his knee, and gently lifts Valjean’s hand away.

“Do not quiet yourself,” he pleads, and Valjean obeys.

Javert curls his finger, and—it is a sweet, hot burst like blossoms opening, in his thighs and in his chest and in his stomach and behind his eyes. He follows Javert’s direction and does not hold back the sounds that come from him. At first he is quiet, each noise wispy and caught in the back of his throat. But as Javert works his finger more intently, finding every soft spot inside him, Valjean gives up trying to be quiet.

His foot slips down the sheets and Javert pauses a moment to hook Valjean’s leg over his shoulder. His slick fingers slip down Valjean’s thigh, and he turns his head to kiss the side of Valjean’s knee. Then he is putting his finger inside Valjean again, and the angle is different this time, harder. It might be painful it if it did not feel so good.

Valjean digs his heel into Javert’s back when there is the sudden, indescribable feeling of Javert pushing another finger into him. He cannot meet Javert’s eyes now, cannot bear to try and look at him. There is a surge, a twinge that travels from the base of Valjean’s spine all the way up to his neck and knocks the breath out of him. He has heard Javert gasp for breath like this at night, sometimes, but never himself. He wants to take Javert’s hand and wrap it around his prick, beg for release. The ache is pleasant, but it burns, and the muscles in his thighs are tense, and Javert’s breathing is heavy, too.

He manages to choke out Javert’s name, or what began as Javert’s name. It comes out as a low moan, a prayer. Javert must recognize the need in the sound, because he curls his fingers again and Valjean thinks he may perish. He is yielding to Javert, letting himself lose control, and he is blissful. His hips move of their own volition, bucking around Javert’s fingers, each small wave of pleasure further intensified by the motion. He bites his bottom lip, hard.

Javert is silent, and Valjean dares to open his eyes and look at him. He has slowed his pace now; his fingers move in long strokes, in and out, that have a way of regulating Valjean’s breathing. Valjean pushes himself up on his elbows—he is unsteady, body still shaking and arching and bending at Javert’s touch. Javert is watching him, his eyes widening when Valjean finally looks at him. His fingers still, and Valjean finds himself grinding against them, trying to simulate their movement. It is not quite the same.

“Should I stop?” Javert asks, looking slightly abandoned. “You need only say it.”

“No,” Valjean says. “I am—I am close.” He feels a pang of embarrassment at saying that. He has never said such a thing aloud.

“Oh,” Javert says. He stares at Valjean a moment more, mouth hanging open, and then blinks before drawing his fingers out of Valjean, deliciously, painfully slowly. Valjean moans again, throwing his head back.

Javert’s fingers graze Valjean’s legs again as he eases himself back up off the bed. He fumbles in the sheets for the bottle of oil, and then he is standing at the foot of the bed, stone-still, mute.

Valjean feels a sudden humiliation at his appearance—legs spread, nightshirt around his hips, thighs slick with oil, prick hard. He is out of breath, chest heaving, and is newly unused to the emptiness of not having Javert in him. He wonders if he has disgusted Javert, if he has done something wrong. All this is still new to him; he is still learning to use his body as something other than a tool. It had never occurred to him, before all this, that he might feel something other than revulsion for his back and thighs and chest. And now, with Javert standing before him, he wonders if he has thought wrongly.

He gathers his courage before speaking. “Is something the matter?” he asks.

Javert shakes his head.

“You did not have to stop,” Valjean says. He does not say how much he wishes Javert had not stopped, how this new torment excites him, how he feels almost neglected now that Javert is not touching him. “Have I done something wrong?”

Javert almost laughs. “Hardly,” he says, and Valjean realizes then that Javert’s eyes are on him, heavy and searching. The lamp does not give off much light, but it is a stark difference from their evenings in the dark, beneath the sheets. Valjean feels exposed, and he begins to move to pull down the hem of his shirt. “Please don’t,” Javert says suddenly. “I’m—I am looking at you.”

Valjean exhales, stills his hands for a moment. He watches Javert watching him, as he has done before, shaving his face in the mirror. But this is different, there is no separation between them.

He thinks of his legs, scarred and pale, and the brush of Javert’s fingers over them. And Javert’s hands easing under his back, tilting his hips just so, and how sure and soft he had been. And Javert had kissed him. _Kissed_ him.

He summons all his strength and grabs at the hem of his shirt again. Javert’s face falls, but then—Valjean leans forward and pulls the shirt over his head before dropping it to the side of the bed.

He is terribly, terribly afraid.

Javert gasps, jaw dropping. Valjean is suddenly cold—there is a chill in the room, and without the blankets, he feels himself shiver, despite how he had sweated just moments earlier. He cannot look down at himself, all that skin and all those scars that Javert must be seeing, so instead he finds Javert’s eyes, hoping for some reassurance.

But Javert is taking him in. Valjean notices that Javert’s palms shake—the bottle catches the light and throws it across the room. Javert’s throat works, swallowing, and he breathes out, something like a sigh. And then Javert, too, is pulling his shirt off, slower than Valjean had. He holds the shirt in his hand for a moment once he has removed it, as though he is fearful to be uncovered. After what feels like a long time, he drops the shirt, and he is bare before Valjean.

Valjean is not sure he has ever desired anything or anyone before, but he feels something that _must_ be desire for Javert. There is no other word for it. Perhaps it is only a reflection of his want to be touched, but—he wants to put his palms on Javert’s shoulders, feel him move and stretch, and kiss him again, slower this time. He is thankful that Javert’s chest is so white, too, and that he is hard, and that his hands quiver even as he opens the bottle and pours more oil into his palm.

Javert slicks the oil over himself, moaning a little as he does. It is strangely, unbearably arousing to watch Javert touch himself this way—almost mechanically at first, but eventually succumbing to the feeling of light fingers and an unsteady hand. He takes in a deep breath and closes the bottle, returns it to its place somewhere in the sheets. Then he is looking at Valjean again, intent, searching.

“I am not much to look at,” Valjean says. His voice wavers. It is still unbelievable that Javert could want to see him—could _want_ him at all.

“You are plenty,” Javert says, getting back onto the bed, once again settling between Valjean’s legs. His hands are still smooth with oil when he drags a finger up each of Valjean’s legs. Valjean feels his hair stand on end; his whole body feels more sensitive than usual, and Javert’s touch is so sure.

Javert’s hands are big, wide, and he slips them across Valjean’s stomach, touching each inch of skin. Valjean tries to keep his breathing slow and calm as Javert thumbs over the muscles in his abdomen and the cut of his hip. He does not touch Valjean’s prick, and Valjean aches for it, wishes he had the strength or the courage to reposition Javert’s hand, curl his own hand around himself, and stroke until the tension in his body was finally eased. Instead, he lets Javert touch, finding soft spots Valjean did not know he had: his inner thighs, the light trail of hair down his navel, a triangle of skin on his side not broken by scars, the spaces between the _TFP_ on his shoulder.

He wonders, briefly, if he should be afraid. He has never been more vulnerable, he supposes, except maybe in Toulon. But that was pain, and he came to understand pain, to know it and greet it like a friend. This is some strange cousin of pain, one he has not learned yet. All he knows is that it turns his body into something more than a shell, a weapon, a hardship. Javert’s lips meet his stomach and he feels suddenly, strangely whole—as though he _is_ whole, not in spite of his body, but because of it.

Javert kisses up Valjean’s stomach to the center of his chest, just over his heart. It is an extraordinarily intimate thing, and the simplicity of it makes Valjean want to break. Javert’s nose rubs against Valjean’s sternum; he rests a hand on Valjean’s side and then slides it upward, thumb brushing against Valjean’s nipple. That is an unexpectedly pleasant sensation. Valjean hears himself moan, and Javert laughs against Valjean’s chest and repeats the motion. He moans again, more a sigh of relief this time, and lets Javert tease him. He kisses across Valjean’s chest, slowing to suck at the skin. Then, after ages, his lips close around Valjean’s nipple, soft and wet, and Javert’s tongue flicks over him. There is the gentle brush of his teeth—not a bite, but a change in sensation that makes the return of Javert’s tongue all the more pleasurable.

Valjean finally allows himself to touch Javert now, running a hand through Javert’s hair. He strokes at the nape of Javert’s neck and Javert shudders, sighs. Javert’s skin is warm against his, and he thinks this might be enough for him. There is something satisfying in holding and being held by Javert, in feeling him breathe. All that skin, all this trust. He does not understand it, but he is thankful for it. He brushes a light hand down Javert’s spine, as far as he can reach, and feels the bone there, and how Javert shivers at the touch.

He wonders if Javert has done this before. He seems so sure, so at ease—but there are his shaking hands, his hesitant touch. Javert’s mouth is at Valjean’s clavicle now, a finger still playing at his nipple, and Valjean turns his head so his cheek brushes against Javert’s hair. Javert sighs at the contact, so Valjean repeats it again, touching the soft spot below Javert’s ear with a fingertip.

“Javert,” he murmurs, half afraid that speaking will end this, break whatever spell has caused Javert to touch him. But Javert only lifts his head a little, lips still trailing across Valjean’s collarbone. “You have done this before.” Valjean is not sure if it is a question.

And Javert laughs into Valjean’s skin—a strange but not unpleasant sensation. “No,” he says. “Never. Never. I have only thought—hoped—for you.”

“Oh,” Valjean says. He exhales. Something about Javert’s inexperience is reassuring. Perhaps it is knowing that they are equals in this, and that maybe Javert’s heart is racing, too, and maybe he is also worried what this will mean for them. Valjean slips his finger beneath Javert’s chin, lifts his face for a moment. Javert looks desperate, his eyes cloudy and lips parted. It is strange to know he has done this to Javert, and that Javert does not mind—that he likes it, even.

Valjean leans forward to kiss Javert, and Javert responds in kind, slow and easy. The kiss has a soothing effect; Valjean easily loses himself in the feeling of Javert’s lips on his. He is afraid—there is no denying that—but knowing that Javert is afraid, too, has a way of calming him.

He lets his head drop to the pillows and Javert studies his face for a moment before sitting back again. Javert trails his fingers across Valjean’s chest, his stomach, and then, finally, to his prick. Valjean immediately groans and closes his eyes. He had not realized how he had craved that touch. Javert draws a fingertip down the length of him, so light it almost does not feel real. Valjean spreads his legs even further, places his hands flat against his chest and feels himself breathe.

“I was surprised you let me touch you the first time,” Javert says quietly. “And every time after.”

Valjean swallows hard. “It was good,” he says. “You are good.”

Javert looks down and shakes his head, face flushing. “I—I want you to enjoy this. I want to be sure of it,” he says.

“I am,” Valjean says. He had thought that much was obvious; he has hardly been able to keep himself composed this whole time.

“This is different,” Javert insists. His fingers trace idly over a scar that licks across Valjean’s ribs. “You will tell me to stop if—God forbid—I hurt you.”

“Yes, Javert, of course,” Valjean says. He hopes it sounds comforting, despite the irrepressible waver in his voice. He is not entirely sure what he is consenting to, but he knows that Javert will not hurt him. They have shared too much now.

Javert nods, takes a deep breath, then slips his hands beneath Valjean’s thighs, lifting him a little. He hooks Valjean’s legs over his shoulders and then leans down one last time to kiss Valjean. Valjean does not know what is coming, but the room feels heavy, and he buzzes with anticipation.

Valjean pushes up onto his elbows again to better see what Javert is doing. Javert has one palm beneath Valjean’s hips and the other at his own prick. He inches closer to Valjean, and Valjean feels himself lifted again, just slightly. Then Javert is shifting, and his prick is against Valjean, and his fingertips, too.

Javert meets Valjean’s eyes for a single, desperate moment. He looks as terrified as Valjean feels, but his hands are steady, and this has been so good. So Valjean nods, and Javert takes a deep breath and pushes into him.

Immediately, Valjean falls back, not able to keep himself propped up. The sound he makes is animal—the feeling of Javert’s fingers inside him was ineffable; somehow, this is even better. Javert is biting his lip, but Valjean hears his breath catch. He pushes in slowly, until all of him is inside Valjean and his hips are against Valjean’s thighs. He gets his free hand beneath Valjean, sets it at his waist, and holds him steady. Then he moves again, even slower, pulling back until he is nearly out of Valjean. He works in these long, deep thrusts until he and Valjean are both panting.

Javert’s hands are tight on Valjean’s waist, but he does not mind them. He is overwhelmed with sensation—the pinpoints of Javert’s fingertips and nails pressing into his sides, his hips bucking involuntarily when Javert drives into him again, Javert’s low, guttural noise at each thrust. With each of Javert’s movements, Valjean feels torn apart and sewn back together and ripped open again. All that good feeling strikes through him like a hammer to a nail, through his muscles and bones and lungs and heart. The bedframe knocks against the wall, the mattress creaks, Javert finally cries out.

Valjean grasps at the sheets for purchase before Javert leans down closer. It puts a strain on his thighs, but the pain is pleasant, and Valjean can finally press his hands to Javert’s chest. His fingers brush over Javert’s nipples, his sternum and down to his stomach. Valjean does not know where to touch first, and Javert is still pushing into him. There is nothing to hold onto, Javert’s skin is flushing red, Valjean feels sweat at his neck. His palms slip down Javert’s chest and eventually he wraps his arms around Javert’s waist. He holds tight, afraid of what will happen if he lets go.

Javert thrusts harder, faster now, daring to look down at Valjean as he does so. Valjean does not take his eyes off of him, only sinks his nails even further into Javert’s skin. There is pain in his legs, all his muscles tight and straining, the backs of his thighs bruising from Javert’s hipbones digging into him over and over, but these new marks, new pains, are welcome.

Something bubbles up inside him, starting in his chest and then traveling, at once, down and up him. His prick twitches against him, red and wet at the tip, and he feels twisted inside. He knows this feeling—beneath the sheets, under Javert’s hand, he has felt this, and he has come to anticipate it. But it has never been so strong as this.

He tries to speak, but only manages to make a noise a little like a wail. He rolls his hips against Javert, cranes his neck to kiss him, and then, fast as a candle being blown out, he is gone. His whole body tenses, every muscle contracting and releasing at the same time. His head falls back and he sighs, the sound wavering as Javert pushes into him. Javert only slows down for a moment to kiss Valjean’s neck and cheek and, finally, his mouth, as Valjean’s heels push into Javert’s back. Valjean’s spend is warm on his own stomach, and Javert draws a finger over him as he is wrung dry. Valjean wants to squirm away from the touch—it is too much, he is too sensitive—but even that is satisfying. This is pleasant, this hazy, overstimulated feeling that pervades him.

Javert still thrusts into Valjean, slowing down again, pushing deeper. Valjean is so worn out he can hardly breathe, much less move, and his hands fall from Javert’s waist. His back arches a little at an especially hard thrust, and he hears Javert moan. Javert’s breath is as ragged as Valjean’s, all gasps and sighs. Then he is grasping for Valjean’s shoulder, his thrusts suddenly shallow, and Valjean feels Javert spend inside of him.

That, too, is beyond words. Valjean feels dazed by all this newness. His legs slip from Javert’s shoulders unceremoniously, landing on the bed with a flop. He is too tired to care, and Javert is still inside him, still trying to catch his breath, and holding onto his shoulders. Not long after, Javert collapses on top of him, crumpling like paper, and for a long time, everything is skin and sweat. He feels full, conscious of his body—he takes inventory of his limbs: Javert’s legs stretching against his, his left hand drifting across Javert’s back, his right arm sprawled out in the sheets.

The lamplight flickers, and there is a cool breeze through the window. Javert’s fingers are light on his shoulders, Javert’s mouth open against his neck, Javert’s breath soft on his skin—it is all tender and kind and wonderful. Valjean is lost, and he is tired, but Javert is against him, _in_ him, and he is rapturous.

For once in his life, he is not ashamed of his body, despite all the ugly remnants of a person he used to be. Javert kisses the crook of his neck, the tip of a long scar that Valjean knows spans the width of his back. He does not hesitate to kiss that skin again and again. It is enough to make Valjean want to weep.

After their breathing has steadied again, once they can move without quivering, Javert rolls to Valjean’s side, in the space between his arm and chest. He finally slips out of Valjean—Valjean cannot stop himself from making a desperate sound at the loss—and squeezes close to him, splaying his hand across Valjean’s chest. There is still spend on Valjean’s belly, between his legs and on the sheets, but he cannot bring himself to care. Javert’s head is on his shoulder, and this feels easy and right. There is warm light dancing across Javert’s knuckles, his face, their skin.

Valjean wants to speak, but he does not know what he would say if he could. Instead, he buries his face in Javert’s hair, kisses the top of his head. Javert sighs and pulls in closer, as close as he can get. “I ought to clean us up,” Javert mumbles, lips brushing against Valjean’s skin. There is a touch of sadness in his voice, a tone that Valjean does not recognize.

“That can wait,” Valjean insists. “Please.”

He is not ready to give this up, not yet. Not when Javert is so warm and feels so good next to him, when they are learning more and more ways to fit together. In this light, he can count the freckles on Javert’s forearm, see the hair on the back of his hand, his bitten-down fingernails. He wants to learn these small parts of Javert, all these hidden places. When Javert turns his face toward him, Valjean notices the crinkles at the corners of Javert’s eyes, the strands of auburn in his hair.

“Whatever you like,” Javert says.

 _This_ , Valjean thinks, and kisses Javert’s forehead.

* * *

They make up for lost time, or try to.

They fall asleep together, still bare, still holding each other. It is a peaceful, dreamless night, and Valjean is happy to wake up to Javert pressed behind him, solid and real. The light that pours in through the window is too bright, reflecting off the snow. There is a sheet tangled around them, one of Javert’s legs thrown over Valjean’s, and a quilt pulled up to their waists.

Somehow, unbelievable as it is, all of this is real. Valjean almost laughs, thinking about it. Instead he buries himself further under the blankets, and Javert’s arms tighten around him. They have woken up like this before, knotted together, but with skin hidden beneath nightshirts, and always holding on loosely, as if not to acknowledge what has passed between them.

Now there are no more pretenses, and so much of each other to see. And so they commit to learning each other, knowing each other, in every way they can. Somehow, Javert’s sour has gone sweet. On early mornings-after, Javert pulls Valjean to him, and in the hazy sunlight, they slowly recreate the night before, everything honeyed, everything golden. Valjean learns to be touched, learns that he can be soft, learns that his hardness is not a burden. And he learns, too, how to lay Javert down and find the softness in him. 

It is strange to be learning so much this late in life. Valjean has always committed himself to knowing more and more, and so perhaps it should not come as a surprise that he wants to know everything about Javert. They spend evenings in bed with the lamp burning, Valjean mapping every part of Javert’s body: here is the scar from falling off a horse years ago, here is the birthmark the color of caramel, here is the heart that beats too fast at every touch. All these things, suddenly illuminated.

**Author's Note:**

> Title lifted from "Sex" by Ruth L. Schwartz.


End file.
